Man of Cyrene
by Astarte's Rapture
Summary: You, carry His cross!


**Another repost. Please review and leave any critiques you see fit. Thank you!**

**_New International Version _**

_**Mark 15: 21 "A certain man from Cyrene, Simon, the father of Alexander and Rufus, was passing by on his way in from the country, and they forced him to carry the cross."**_

_**Man of Cyrene**_

Humidity soaked the air long after the thunder clouds' legion retired to the north and all traces of their army melted away. Mourning dew clung to the fresh blades of emerald grass stretching across the turbulent sea of roaming hills. Mist loomed just above the olive trees that lined the muddy and soaked dirt path leading into the city walls. The air was crisp and clean, smelling anew, as it was when creation first began. The faint scent of new blossoms tingled my nose as the make-shift wooden crate of doves cooed softly to the morning's dawn. Song birds flitted too-and-fro about the cerulean hued sky, darting between the high branches of lime green tree tops while finely decorated wings fluttered over the lush buds. The atmosphere was heavy with content and tranquility. My thick robes floated around my sandaled feet, swaying and scraping the epidermis of my skin. The melodious crunch of the grains of sand under my heel created a smooth rhythm that was only disturbed by the calls of adolescent voices and the pitter-patter of two pairs of feet sprinting up the path.

Coffee stained faces dusted with russet freckles radiated in the dawn's early beams. Bronzed flesh was revealed beneath rough cloth that swooped about their thin shoulder blades and ran the length of their bodies to their knees. Neither wore sandals upon their youthful feet, refusing a single toe to be bound. Rather, their feet felt the smooth grains of the sand and the moist mud as it squished between their toes. Their feet skimmed the open fields so that each blade of grass brushed their heels. Giggling, as all young boys do when engaged in an imaginary quest, they darted between the olive branches and scaled wide puddles of still water left behind by the throng of clouds to mark their trail. Doves scattered at their wild calls and grazing sheep scrutinized their lithe forms. Heart swelling, I allowed my lips to curl upward at their antics, for today they would partake in the first of a history of traditions. This morning, in Jerusalem, my sons will witness a grand offering.

Soon their breaths came in shallow gasps for oxygen and their gangly arms dangled at their side or rested upon their knees. Huffing and puffing as they ran up the hill, they raced to an imaginary finish line and cheered as the victor claimed his throne. Chuckling to myself, I adjusted the wooden crate in my arms and worked my way up the winding mound. The frosty breeze caught in my dull roan beard and wiped the hairs so that they tickled my throat and toyed with my hair so that it fixed itself into odd positions.

Once at the top, my boys grinned wildly and flung themselves onto the new sprouts of the spring grass, their bodies quivering and convulsing with hiccups and suppressed laughter as they rolled, before halting to catch their breaths. It was times such as these that I treasured, watching as the sun caused their faces to be aglow. They simply closed their eyes and shunned away the intruding light and laid there but awhile, soaking in the sound of the breeze through the tree leaves, the occasional bleat of a goat or baa of a sheep, and the melodic coos of the pigeons and doves. Their senses held on to every waft of scent, and the perfume of the new blossoms swam about their nostrils, tantalizing them with their rapturous aroma.

My eldest's eyelids fluttered open, revealing his darkling eyes that squinted as the sunlight invaded his pupils. His lips parted to reveal a white spread of teeth that contrasted with his adust skin tone. Pulling himself up so that he rested on his elbows, he stared fixedly at me, his dusky strands of hair falling into his eyes, creating an azure shadow that sent peaks like mountains down to his defined chin.

In a clear and not yet matured voice he inquired, "Father, to where are we going? What shall we see in Jerusalem?" Before I had time to part my chapped lips or clear my throat, my youngest bolted up from his bed of grass. His nutbrown eyes danced with wonder from between thick eyelashes. His mop of auburn and unruly hair curled about his chubby cheeks and blended with the freckles that were speckled there. He grinned an almost completely toothy grin and without a bashful tone in his young voice, he exclaimed, "Why are we going to Jerusalem?"

Heaving a heavy sigh, I rested myself on a fallen log to the side of the road and placed the crate of doves next to my feet. Stretching my legs I grinned at them and playfully teased, "Well, perhaps if you would rise from your seat and come rest by my feet I will tell you the reason why we have come to Jerusalem to sacrifice our offering." They smiled sheepishly and pulled themselves to their feet, jogged towards me, and plopped themselves on the soft moss at my feet. Pondering a moment to decide where to begin, I cleared my throat and spoke proudly to their quizzical expressions, "The tradition began with Abraham . . ."

Time slowly trickled by as I enthusiastically retold the history of my family to the two babes. Their eyes shined with wonder and awe at the scenes of battle and drooped when I rattled off the lineage of our ancestry.

"And that is why we have come today my sons."

My eldest rose to his feet and stretched his arms far above his head and let out a deep yawn. The younger still appeared perplexed and his eyebrows knitted together in thought. Wrinkling his pudgy nose, he questioned, "But father, what are we to do in Jerusalem? Who is it we are to see?" Kneeling down to his level, I took his hands and put one of mine under his chin. The elder turned his head to the side and listened to what I told his brother. "Just watch the lamb . . ."

The city of Jerusalem is often crowded with merchants selling goods and advertising their stock as men hustled to do jobs, women bargained with shop keepers while holding on to young children, and as livestock crowded the street. Tall golden buildings lined the roads, creating a maze of allies that any man could become lost in.

"The market will hold many, you must stay near me."

The rambunctious noise of the city would fill the ears as women wagged their tongues in a fiery conversation, as men hollered to one another, and as children ran about in their childish games. It would be easy to be separated, that I knew, but the time had come for our sacrifice to be given. Holding the crate once more, I strolled down the drying path, my two sons at my side. The sun had risen higher in the clear sky, but a brisk breeze chilled the heat that the sun so humbly offered. My son's mouths emitted a plethora of questions and wonderings. Each one I gave the best answer I could summon.

The eldest soon grew frustrated and blurted in ignorance, "But why must we watch the lamb? There are many in Jerusalem are there not? Why do we have to watch just one?" Stopping in mid-step I peered down at him and observed as he directed his gazed to his barren and dirt clad feet and swallowed hard. Silence sat firmly between us as my youngest just gazed on and darted his eyes to one of us and then to the other. Putting a calloused finger under his chin, I whispered, "There will be many, we must be sure that the lamb does not get away."

The silent ghost grew in strength for a moment, whispering through the tree leaves and calling to the budding flowers. My eyes were drawn away from my children and to the Southeast Mountains, where thundering clouds could be heard announcing their arrival with blaring trumpets and drums. "We must hasten our steps, for I fear those clouds will not wait upon us." The elder's lips formed a frown and I smiled before heading down the last hill that lead to the city limits, the boys trailing along behind.

Shock and unrest clogged the pit of my stomach as we entered the city. Once so full of vibrancy and vitality, it was now solemn and stygian. The humidity stuck everyone's hair to their foreheads. The crepuscular heavens emitted a golden glow on the copper buildings. My two sons huddled close as I paced down the uneven road towards the temple that I so often presented my offering. There appeared to be a great deal of gossip and news stirring about the city, and rumors of a man being tried was picked up as I passed a huddle of beggars huddling before an inn. Pushing aside any feeling of alarm, I reached the temple.

Silence. Empty silence. Or perhaps it was the loudest silence I have ever heard. Not a soul resided in the temple. No worshipers, beggars, or repentant hearts crowded the halls and pillars of the place of offering. My youngest tugged at my tunic impatiently as I checked behind every pillar for a single person. Not a song came from a voice, where usually the halls echoed with praise lyrics. No instruments created beats to which many would move and sway in worship and exultance. There was nothing but silence. Dead silence. The noise hung heavy on my heart and confusion clouded my mind. Whirling back to the place of entrance, I took one last look at the temple. A thick aroma of frankincense from candles with burning flames of orange and blue created a thin layer of smoke that loomed and swam about the room. The high windows allowed the light to stream inside in a dull gold that conflicted with the blue and purple shadows that bordered their limit of reach. Pulling the younger's hand, we fled the forsaken building.

The sound of yelling could be heard from the other side of the city. Malice filled shouts of obscenities caused me to cringe and want to cover the ears of my two boys, but something, an eerie sense of sorts, compelled me to follow the cries down the streets that were filled with people amuck with disconcert. The further down the road we stepped, the thicker the streets became with city folk, and the more audible became the piercing cries and shouts. My boy's hands were sweaty and slipped from my grasp a number of times before we reached an enormous crowd of enraged faces. The walls of the structure were enormous, carved in stones that were stacked long ago. It was the building of Pontius Pilot.

Squeezing our way through the thick mass of sweating bodies, we were able to get close enough to view Pilot. His sun-kissed face was tightly drawn into a frown as a crown of leaves perched royally upon on his head. Fine cream linen garments flowed around his body, decorated in ornate patterns of royal lavender, and I could not help but acknowledge the authority of his presence. His mouth moved, but I was still much too far away to hear his words. Both of my sons urgently clung and tugged my tunic, but my mind was too absorbed in my surroundings to pay much more than a second to them. Taking their small fingers in my hands, I pulled them through the crowd and towards the podium on which Pilot resided. Closer to the stage on which Pilot proudly stood, shrill roars of rage clouded the atmosphere. Squinting, I made out the withering form of what appeared to be a man. At least, what appeared to have been a man.

"What will you have me do?" Pilot, for the first time in all the years he had served, sounded uncertain and almost pleading to the crowd of the uneducated. His eyebrows were furrowed and drops of salty liquid streamed down his cheeks. He faced the crowd with his arms held out to them. Two men were talking in a heated argument to my left. Allowing the chaos of the crowd to melt away, I focus became the words of the men.

"Is it true what they say? Does that man claim to be the Messiah," asked one man. He was heavier set and loud. His wild hair appeared to have never met a comb and his heavy bellow drummed in my ears.

"Yes, they speak the truth. He is the man they call Jesus, the King of the Jews . . ." The thin man beside him spoke in a nasally voice and had squinted eyes and little hair, but his words lingered in my mind. I had heard of this man. He was said to have rebuked the great Pharisees in their own temples. He was no more than a rumor. Before I had time to fully recall the name, the crowd erupted in blatant and incisive vociferations. Pure hatred spewed from their mouths as I heard their voices cry out, "Crucify Him!"

My blood ran cold. Shills crept slowly up my spine and I shivered despite the sweltering heat. "Who shall I give to you in his place?" Pilot's voice was filled with frustration. Silence filled the crowd before a single man shouted, "Give us Barabus!"

The mass erupted in maniacal shouts and cries, calling for the release of Barabus. Barabus, a thief and murderer, was this who the crowd was willing to take instead of the man before my eyes? How can that be? Pilot's eyes fell and he sighed obediently. He looked frail and beaten as he gazed down at the torn form of the man at his feet. He pities him, that I could tell. Turning his head to the back of the podium, he waved his hand towards himself and a servant holding a porcelain basin of sparkling water stepped out from behind the stone columns. Dipping his leathery hands into the basin, he announced, "I am clean of this man's blood. His blood is on your hands!" The crowd cheered and jeered, accepting his curse as the man was dragged from the stage as a display and led past the columns into an adjacent and secluded section of stone.

I attempted to pull my sons and myself away from the crowd, but was only sucked further in as they moved as one body to follow the man. I knew not where they were leading Him, and frankly, I cared not. My only concern was to leave this place far behind and to flee to the haven of my home with my little ones. My youngest was yelling in fright as my oldest held on deathly tight to my hand. Their eyes were wild with terror and confusion and my heart wrenched. The surroundings about me swam in a blur of colors and I felt suffocated in the stench of bodies. I was drowning.

A scream. A hallow cry pierced my ears and drew my senses to action. A swoosh sound swept through the air and was preceded by another desperate cry. The crowd fell deadly quiet. They were whipping him, carving into His skin until they felt their handiwork was accomplished. I paused for a moment and just listened to each agonized wail as flesh was ripped from His body by the pompous centurions who played the role of a butcher in this hopeless drama. There were no scarlet curtains or fancy costumes. There were no lines and songs, but it was a performance nonetheless, and we each were playing a role. Each tearful cry jerked my body and caused my heart to palpitate more furiously. My little one's screams mixed with the beaten man's and I shoved away from the crowd harder than ever before. I did not wish to participate in this role, a bystander, who would watch this man die without a feeling of guilt or emotion. Why were men condemned to die today? Why upon this day, the day of offerings to the Most High? The crowd blurred as one cynical face, grinning lustfully as the blood was shed and feeding off of the terror of each soul.

High above, buzzards swarmed and circled, savoring the fresh scent of blood that now permeated the air in a sickening stench. Crows perched on the high walls and gazed on through their cantaloupe orbs. Their caws haunted my thoughts.

Suddenly, without warning, the whip halted and the cries died away. Turning to face the crowd, I watched as they formed a path for who I assumed to be the man. Bile rose in my throat as I realized, we are the audience of this production.

As the crowd parted, I was stunned to see a man different from whom I was originally expecting. His shirt hung limply off of his gaunt form. Thin shoulder blades were evident from under the thin cloth. His emaciated face revealed every bone of his skull and large circles surrounded his eyes in a black hue. Upon closer inspection, I was able to view the intricate pattern of flogging marks and scars that littered his back. Eyes wide with fear, he searched the faces of the crowd for a single familiar face, but he found none, for who would acknowledge ties with a criminal? His step stumbled as he reached where I stood. The soldiers threw him to the desert sands and the crowd heaped insults upon his form, spitting and gnashing their dusted teeth. Fists flew and connected with his back and rib cage, and I winced as an audible crack filled my ears. His body racked with sobs and I looked away, putting my hand upon the back of my eldest as he buried his face deep into my chest.

My youngest, however, toddled forward, staring at the man. The filthy thief glanced at the boy, holding his gaze. He stretched his chubby arm towards the man, and with the natural reflexes of the night owl, I swooped the child to my side, leaving my eyes to speak to the ill fated creature before me. He broke his stare, and the crowd returned to their blood lust.

Shortly after the crowd was allowed to give the criminal his "just dues," the centurions brought forth a large mass of wood. It was a cross, a splintered and rugged cross. Heaving it upon his shoulders, the man sunk under the weight, but summoning all the strength he could, he slowly took a step, followed by another. Gazing on as the thief stumbled and panted down the dusty path, violent threats being shouted caught my attention.

Another man, thrashing wildly as his captors threw him forward, screamed and cursed everything from the blistering sun to the desert sands, and all that lied in-between. His pitch black hair shined in the sun and the golden rays reflected off of the stubble that lined his chin. He was not as cadaverous as the first prisoner, but deep circles still rested under his eyes. His eyes . . . They were crazed. The whites contrasted with the blackness of his oculus. Pupils, large and constricted, took in the bodies of the crowd. When his scrutiny rested on me and the boys, a sneer spread over his face. Allowing his gaze to linger on my youngest, he maliciously tested, "Lovely boys you have there. Come to watch this great spectacle have they?"

The guards swept a heavy blow to his head and he fell to the ground as I peered on through narrowed slits. He laughed hysterically and was not even fazed as the cross was given to him, but rather, he turned towards the piece of timber and ran his hands over it's bark before picking it up and nonchalantly carrying it down the same path on which the first man had wavered. Looking down at my boys, they glanced up at me wonderingly and without expression. We watched as the two men made their way down the convoluted path, flanked by soldiers with swords ready and the throng of the crowd. Their fate was sealed, and I felt little sympathy for either man.

"There He is! There's Jesus!"

All heads turned towards a nauseatingly disfigured form. What words are there to describe the appearance of this man? He was stripped down so that only his torso and legs down to his thigh were covered by a soiled sheet. His muscles were taunt and dried blood was crested upon them. Traveling up to his chest and back, I was horrified at the sight. Throughout His body, clumps of flesh were missing, ripped off as if by a ravenous lioness. On his side, ribs were visible through the ribbons of dangling, bloodied, flesh. Deep stripes from the switch were carved deep into His body. Not a section on His back was left without a lash from the flail.

The flail . . . That was a cruel instrument. Nine long strips of tough leather sprung from its base handle like a thorny weed from fertile soil. And within those hideous strips lied the deadliest weapon of all. Acanthous chips of bone and tapering glass were sedulously placed within the leather so that each lash would deal the most torment possible. First, the leather whip alone would mar the flesh, creating a burning sensation and digging deep enough to draw blood, then the flail would be brought out. Its leather would dig deeper and the acute pieces would burrow far within the skin before being flung back, dragging as much skin as possible within its teeth. Often it would latch onto the ribs and completely open the rib cage, exposing each curved bone. Other times it would latch onto the face. What a horrid sight it is when the bones hook the cheekbone and tear away the protective flesh of the skeleton. It was not unusual for a prisoner being flogged to lose an eye or even both from the barbed minions. It is a woeful sight indeed, but never had I seen a man this badly beaten.

The whip had sliced right through His olive skin, shedding it as a razor through a sheet. His ribs were fully exposed and rivets of flesh hung off of Him. Part of His scalp was missing, adding even more of the crimson liquid to the river. It appeared He had bathed in a sea of blood. Patches of His beard were absent and droplets of blood dripped from His chin. Atop His head sat a sorrowful view. A heinous crown of diabolical thorns adorned His head. The spinous thorns were embedded deep within His skull. The scarlet blood that spewed from His head and down His faces created a macabre sight. What crime could He have committed to deserve such punishment?

He was broken. No other words could describe the hunched figure before my eyes. Yet, as He gazed about the crowd, His eyes held such longing, such . . .pity. Pity? The one whom deserved pity was the one who was now expressing that odd emotion to His jury, who tried Him corruptly and with little evidence. His eyes held mysteries, as if He knew that this would occur, as if . . . He planned for this to occur.

A centurion, clad in steel armor with an iron helmet shadowing his face, uncaringly tossed a garment across His withering form and placed the heavy cross upon the Lord's back. The wood was not carved and had multiple splinters jutting from its boards. The Lord cringed as the chips of bark dug into his flesh, but without protest or comment, He turned and embraced His burden, laying His lips against its surface, and then He began His excruciating walk. He stumbled many times, falling to the parched earth. The throng of inhabitants and onlookers stood on either side of the road and watched on intently as the man struggled. Even as He fell to the ground, the blood dripping profusely from His body to the sands in grand droplets, not a man offered to aid Him. No words of comfort were whispered, but rather, only harsh curses met His ears. The crowd of bystanders were planted on either side of the dirt clad path. Each took turns smacking His face and spitting upon Him. Women turned their heads away as He passed them by. Their heads were adorned with veils so that only a few strands of hair were visible. A few eyes were glossed over with unshed tears while some openly wept. The men's faces were hard set and revealed little emotion. Anger burned as a raging fire in their eyes, but a handful respectfully looked away as He drew near.

Compelled to follow, I shoved my way through the sea of bodies, attempting to stay as close to the dethroned Lord as possible. My children ran with me, matching two of their steps for each one of mine. Above our heads, people gazed on through their high windows and children intently observed the event from atop the arches that branched from one building to another. Their thin and shapely legs dangled above the path and their noisy chatter stood out from the deep masculine voices of the men.

Another man caught my attention in the crowd. His head bore curly black hair and his eyes were full of fear. He leaped as a gazelle over the people in a mad rush to keep up with the Messiah. Perhaps he knew this man. Perhaps they were friends. The rigid winds picked up and twirled the sands about my feet, sweeping my cloak in a waterfall motion. My thoughts drifted to the people watching this spectacle. What thoughts traveled through their minds when He passed them? Did they know Him? Maybe one of these faces belonged to the leper He is said to have healed, or perhaps, to the blind beggar to whom He is said to have revealed color to. The naïve exclamations of the children above ceased and time stood still. "Father . . .," whispered my eldest as he pointed a shaking finger out at the man in front of my eyes.

His legs trembled as the great cedar tree does in a violent windstorm. His whole body was shaking like an autumn leaf. Tongue panting in the setting desert sun, He gasped. His chest cavity rose and slumped down heavily with each tightly drawn breath. Then, He fell. The cross created a dull thud as it crushed His body against the dirt. Forcing myself to look away, I did not notice the guards as they scanned the crowd. My children pulled on my hands to try to turn me away. Without warning, a rough and heavy hand clamped down upon my shoulder and I turned only to be face to face with a Roman soldier. His eyes were dark and filled with no emotion other than hate. He grinned wickedly and pointed towards the Lord. "You, carry the cross for Him!"

I could have sworn that my heart forgot how to beat and that my tongue knew not how to form words. Shaking my head I tried to step away, but paused when the man reached with his dark and burly hand for his sword that was tucked protectively on his hip. "Carry His cross or you will join Him," he sneered, baring his clean teeth. His threat was true and I dared not to test the reliability of his word. My children had silent tears falling down their cheeks. Kneeling down to them I whispered, "Do not weep. Follow me closely, and do not get lost little ones." Without another thought, I stepped into the center of the now speechless crowd.

The heavy breathing of the Lord was picked up by my ears and I cringed as a low rattle resounded from within His chest. He coughed and blood mixed with mucous poured from His mouth, but when he looked up at me, I felt no worry. His eyes were not dull or dead. No, they held a kindling fire, a passion that was indescribable. In that moment, shame flooded my heart and warmth heated my cheeks as I gazed at all who were intently watching my every move in disbelief. I rested one hand on the rough bark of the two beams and breathed in the smell of the wood. Gripping it with both hands, I lifted the cross onto my shoulder blades and gasped as the splinters pricked my back. Bustling whispers erupted from the crowd of observers and I proudly stood with the cross. The Lord rose and stood beside me. His arms circled the cross and He placed His back under the thick boards. The criss-crossed beams dug into His back once more and His dehydrated tongue swelled with each movement, but He stepped forward, with full control of His mind.

My feet burned as the wind whipped the grains of sand against my toes and heel. The cross became heavier with each step and my back sunk under the pressure. Feet catching on a stone, I tripped and fell to the hard floor, the cross dropping on top of myself and the Lord. Huffing for oxygen, our eyes met. I became lost in His eyes and I no longer saw the blood caked on His face, but a man, an innocent man. Seeing my confusion, He grinned sadly and nodded His head. Calling every last bit of strength I possessed, I heaved the cross upward. The thorns on the Lord's head poked my temple and blood dripped down my cheek, but I did not fret. My head pressed against the Lord's, and His blood covered my face. But it did not matter anymore.

The road twisted and branched off many times. We had left the city long ago. The crowd dispersed and only those who knew the Lord and curious youths remained. A woman clothed in black had tears streaming down her face as she watched this man and myself carry the cross up the hill. A handful of men followed. One was the raven haired man I had seen earlier. He now had his arms about the black clothed woman and was repeatedly whispering small comforts into her ear. Another woman was also with them. Her long and curled nutmeg hair tumbled down her body to her stomach and her eyes were a warm coal color. She was lovely indeed, but her tears made her look utterly helpless.

Guards mocked us both as we struggled under the weight, but I learned to ignore them. They snorted and scoffed when we fell, but their words only pushed me to lift the cross upon my back once again. My children were silent and walked with the women. Their faces were pail and I longed to hold them in my arms and to make all of these events disappear, but that was impossible.

"Up ahead," yelled one Roman soldier to my left. He was young. Youthful features etched his face and his lips still bore a childish pout. Searching up ahead, I realized that we had arrived at Golgotha, the Place of The Skull. I leered at the awful hill jutting up in the shape of a dead man's bones. The silhouettes of two crosses were already visible. The sun was hidden behind thick gray clouds and the earth was bathed in a solemn granite tone. No one spoke as we tripped and drunkenly made our way up the hill. It was as silent as the grave.

Throwing the cross to the ground, I humbly and shamefully stepped back and away from the Lord. Taking my children's hands I turned them from the soon to be horrid sight. Looking at each of the already planted crosses, I found the quiet thief gazing down at the Lord in wonder. His chest hardly rose and his skin was pallid. The other thief, the hostile being, frantically began to unleash insults through clenched teeth. What a lamentable sight they made.

Unable to do anything but watch, I witnessed the crucifixion of the Lord. Mockingly they removed the orchid garment from His form. They threw His tired body upon the already blood soaked ground, and without a single curse or plea for mercy, He allowed the soldiers to tightly bind each wrist on the rugged cross. Stretching His hands as far apart as possible, until they almost popped out of their sockets, they strapped His wrists with leather bands and crossed His feet so that one lay atop the other. His body convulsed and shivered, but none showed an ounce of grace. Rather, the centurions removed the cloth and robbed Him of any dignity He may have possessed, and tossed it worthlessly to the pack of guards who cackled as they pulled out wooden chips and dice made from bones.

My eyes widened as the young centurion I had seen before waltzed up to the Lord with four iron spikes in his hands. They were no ordinary spikes. They were half an inch thick and the base was not pointed, but flat. Professionally he placed the base on the Lord's wrist, right between the two bones that shape the underarm. He raised his hammer . . . and brought it down full force.

My children cried and shuddered as His screams drummed in our ears, and I turned away. No sound had ever met my ears that could match the sound of the Lord crying out in that deplorable manner. The crunch of bones mingled with the shredding sound of arteries and veins. The Lord choked as blood clogged His throat and I was silently sick myself in a ditch a few yards away.

The soldiers gazed on unmoved. And why should they show emotion? They were bred and taught to kill and execute from the time they were lads. Torturing was a game to them, a game in which the winner was the one who could beat his man the worst without killing him. To them, this was just an ordinary day, a ritual. It was their job and duty. All in the city knew that for a soldier to refuse his duties it would mean death, and what man would risk death to save another's life? It was unheard of. One would be insane to accept the death on a cross in the futile hope of saving another who was convicted. But despite the reality that they were doing their duty, I hated them with such hate that even the devil himself could not match. Contempt and scorn raged in my blood and I yearned to reach out and strike each one, but when I gazed at the Lord, willingly allowing them to mutilate His body, I knew that I was wrong and unrighteous.

Lastly, they took the fourth nail and hammered a sign above His head. It read, _This is Jesus of Nazareth, The King of The Jews_. They laughed and hollered at the make-shift sign, but I just gazed at it, knowing that those words must be true.

I was never a man of gullible nature. Proof determined the ruling of my mind. But my father, and his father, all worshiped the Holy One, Jehovah. I could trace my lineage back to Abraham, the father of many sons, to Noah, the one of unparalleled faith and lack of doubt. But I held the nature of Gaddi son of Susi, of the tribe of Joseph. For as he doubted Caleb's good faith in YHWH, I rarely display grand faith without tradition. It was with tradition my faith in the Holy One grew, watered by the pride of my lineage. But, this man did not lie in the worn manuscript of my forefathers. His name did not appear within the battle counts or births. What then could spark such a childish ignorance of faith from a man such as I?

Time passed slowly as they raised the cross and dumped it into a pre-made hole. All three men writhed in pain and their bodies uncontrollably jerked and twitched as their blood pressure dropped lower and lower. I watched as the soldiers cheered and played their games, tearing at the cloth that had covered the Lord and using it as a prize for the victor. Another crowd gathered and cried out at Him, "So! You can destroy the Temple and build it up again in three days, can you? Well then, if You are the Son of God, save yourself and come down from the cross!" The shouting man was a burly man and had dark hairs all over his body. Sheep clothes thickly covered him. The others laughed and agreed. The thief shouted, "He trusts in God, now let God deliver Him should He see it fit!"

Darkness came over the land and the Lord cried, "Eli, Eli, lema sebachthani?" The crowd retorted, "Look, He is calling for Elijah! Let us see if Elijah will come and save Him!" If only they knew what He said. Had they forgotten their own ancestry of the tongue? For, He was not calling to Elijah, but to YHWH

"Father, what did He say?" My youngest stared at me and I rasped, "He said, My God, My God, why have You forsaken me?" Tears burned my eyes and I choked on a sob at the end. Again, the Lord spoke above the crowd, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing!"

Hours passed and the two thieves began to fade. The loud thief again scoffed, "You claim to be the Son of God. Save Yourself and us with You!" The Lord turned and rested His head upon His arm as he gazed at the delirious man. The previously silent thief had tear drops falling from His cheeks and whispered in a barely audible voice, "Don't you fear God even when you are dying? We deserve to die for our evil deeds, but this man has not done anything wrong." His voice cracked and he struggled for breath, one of his last.

"Jesus, remember me when You come into Your Kingdom." His plea was honest and repentant, not holding a hitch of doubt, but of a desperate need of belief that there is hope. Closing my eyes in respect for their last moments, I heard the Lord whisper, "I assure you, today you will be with Me in paradise." The thief inhaled sharply before he fell silent, long after the other sunk into an everlasting sleep. His face remained looking at the Lord as his body slumped down the rough textured bark. "One in paradise, one lost for eternity," I whispered to myself, still gazing on at the man who, be it for the slightest of moments, evoked a profound pity from deep within my breast.

Standing near the cross were His mother and two other women. I could not hear the words He spoke to her as she kneeled at the foot of her Son's cross, but I could not imagine what feelings coursed though her body. For a mother to watch her child suffer, knowing that she could not protect Him, is the worse torture of all. What memories played out in her mind? Did she recall His birth, the first time she held Him in her arms and cooed to Him promises of peace and happiness, or the first time He laughed in which she smiled proudly and giggled herself, or the moment that He first walked on His own? Or maybe she remembered the time that He fell to His knees and cried out to her as she soothed His burning flesh. That same woman who was thought to be able to do anything, now sat here, kneeling at the foot of the cross, stroking her dying Son's bloodied feet.

The sky was washed in a vibrant orange and the light painted the surrounding mountains as much as it could from behind the clouds. The brisk winds caused dead leaves to dance about my feet and for the leafless trees to sway and cling to anyone within the reach of their limbs. "I thirst." Startled from my absent reverie, I glanced up at the Lord. How much longer would He last? His limbs convulsed and blood was drained from His body. He hardly tried to take in oxygen anymore. A jar of sour wine was soaked up with a sponge on a hyssop branch and placed to his lips. Hardly tasting it His eyes widened and His whole body seized in convulsions as He gazed up at the darkening skies.

"Into Your hands I commit My Spirit! It is finished." Grabbing my children to my body, we watched as His body fell slack and His head dropped onto His arm. I watched in shock as one last drop of blood fell to the weed filled earth.

Silent tears fell down my cheeks as I stood for what seemed like ages staring up at the lifeless body of the Lord. Blindly stumbling forward, I fell to my knees at the cross and wrapped my arms around the rough wood. "Forgive me. . ." I sobbed as my body was racked with guilt. Shame filled my heart and I wanted nothing more than to cover myself and hide far from the world. I was exposed. Not a single flaw or error felt protectively covered from view. I sat there for a long while, crying and praying, naked before all.

"Father . . ." I turned at the sound of the voice of my youngest. They stood there weeping, the oldest with his hands on the smaller one. Their dirtied faces had clean tear streaks down them and they hiccupped in the middle of their sobs. Drawing myself from my knees, I gently walked over to them and kneeled before them so that my eyes met theirs. "Abba, where did He go," asked my youngest. His brown eyes were wide and his fingers were in his mouth as he spoke from between hiccups. "He went to be with His Father," I smoothly explained. "

He had a Father," he asked once more.

"Yes, He did." Flinging himself into my arms, I protectively held him. "Father . . ." I turned to the eldest. His head was held high and he swiped at the tears not angrily, but impatiently. "What is it, "I begged him.

"Forgive us," he whispered, "the lamb ran away."

We stood there for timeless moments. The tears soon were ceased by a dam of solemn thought. Never would I let my children suffer as this man did. He gave His life, for what, I did not know. Somehow though, peace settled in my heart and I felt all shame and fear melt away. Surely He was who He claimed. For now, that provided me a sensation of overwhelming hope and comfort.

When their sobs quieted, the youngest pulled away from me and walked towards the cross. "Abba, what did we see here? I do not understand."

Turning him towards me, he spoke again, "We still have to give our offering."

Gazing up at the cross I smiled and whispered, "No, the offering has been given. We have been paid for."

"Father, I do not understand," exclaimed my eldest. He stood, half covered in the dim shadows of the earth, his hair swirled in the icy wind as his eyes sparkled in the last embers of light. Waving him towards us, I took both of their hands and turned them to the cross. It was finished. His final breath sealed us all. The Lamb . . .the offering.

"Dear children," I barely whispered, "just watch the Lamb. . . "


End file.
